Evening Song, Chapter 3
Evening Song, Chapter 3
Eric Krewson
Maggie, arms full, walks down the path, unlocks
the lock of Baughmann Hall. To prop the door,
she moves her foot, she guides a stone. Success. “Yes!”
She climbs the stairs, slips through her open door,
then drops the pizza box, her keys, turns on
the lights, the radio: it’s ZBT,
the New Year’s Eve Sinatra at the Sands
tradition. “Let me… swing among those stars.”
She checks the time; it’s half past 9 o’clock.
A latch catches, there’s steps on stairs, then Chris
is there. They meet and hug a while before:
“Come in. Come in. What do you think? I’d give
a tour but you can see it all from here.”
“It’s nice. It’s cozy.” “Thanks. The pizza’s cold.
Figure I’ll put it in the oven now?”
“That’s perfect.” Maggie sets two napkins, plates;
she lights the advent candles in their wreath.
Chris ambles, makes a loop. He sees two stacks
of books atop her desk: Henry IV,
The Seagull, The Bacchae—their spines are split,
their covers torn. He glances at the stack
beside them. “Anything that interests you?”
“Well, this one sounds familiar.” There, on top,
a large and navy, weighty tome, a cross
drawn on its cover: Book of Common Worship—
the hardback’s faded, fraying, a little worse
for wear, though cared for better than the plays.
“Your parents give you this?” “Which? No that’s mine.
I’m the lone church goer.” “How does that happen?”
“One day, I went to church. I stayed. That’s it.”
“That’s it? How did you know to go?” “I stole
a book with an address.” Chris laughs. “You what?”
“You know those bins that sit outside of schools—
you put your textbooks in them when you’re done,
maybe a blanket; someone comes and drives
them off to needy kids? One day, my friends
and I—we’re young, we’re bored—we rifled through.
There, at the bottom, four or five of…”, she points.
Chris snorts. “You stole your Book of Common…?” “Yes,
I did, but not because I wanted it.
We thought that it was underhanded. Wrong
to force that stuff on kids. We stole them all.
We planned to have a bonfire. Seemed rebellious.
It seemed the righteous thing to do.” She shakes
her head. “And it turns out the joke’s…” “On me.
It was. That night, before I cracked the book,
I sat, imagined what it said. I thought
that I could hear, it on my lap, the grand,
the sweeping sentences damning all. The proud,
sure statements full of zeal. What idiots.
And then I opened it.” “And that was that.
You were hooked.” “Well, no. I was struck by the words,
the mildness. Prayer seemed the sort of thing
you couldn’t say aloud, or if you did,
you whispered. Anything more would be too much.
But mostly—more significantly then—
a week or two after we stole the books,
I started to feel bad about the theft.
I’d never stolen anything before.
I brought the book back to my school, the bin
was gone. One day, while flipping through the thing,
I saw, for the first time, a book plate. Christ
Church, 37 Locust St.” “Kutztown?”
“Mmm hmm. A couple blocks from where we lived.
I went an hour before their Sunday service.”
“Adventurous back then, even, I see.”
“You know, I was fairly terrified. Inside,
the place was empty, no one there at all,
I thought. And then I saw a woman—young,
pretty, she looked at me and smiled and waved.
I walked the aisle to her pew. I lied.
I said I’d found the book outside. She called
me very kind, she thanked me. I just stood
there for a minute, looking round the church.
The stained glass left its squares of emerald, violet
on the carpet, walls that otherwise were plain
and bare. The woman moved her coat and asked
if I would like to have the seat beside her.
I took it, happily, I think. She asked
if she had ever seen me there before.
I don’t know why I told the truth. I said
I’d never been to church. After some time,
she picked back up the book I’d given, gave
it back to me and said, ‘Everyone here
has one of these, and you’re here now, which means
you’re owed one, too. It’s yours.’ She left the pew,
came back and put a napkin, doughnut next
to me, a cup of coffee, bulletin.
I went to church one day. I stayed. That’s it.”
Eric Krewson
Artist & Poet
Eric is an artist based in Philadelphia, PA. His writings (short stories, poems, and essays) have appeared in Earth & Altar, Various Small Flames, and Fresh on the Net. Eric’s main creative outlet is the music group The Chairman Dances, for which he acts as songwriter and performer. His compositions (music and lyrics) have been featured by America Magazine, the BBC, Bandcamp, PopMatters, WXPN, and many others. In addition to The Chairman Dances, Eric is a regular church musician and has written and arranged for faith communities in the Philadelphia region. He served as artist-in-residence at the Grunewald Guild, in Washington state, in 2019. Eric holds a master’s degree in music history from Temple University.
Photography by Maeva Vigier